


Wrong

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Series: A Man's House Burns Down [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-11
Updated: 2007-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's wrong...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I have a whole backstory for this in my head, but considering my current track record for writing longer fic, it might never see the light of day. I hope this stands on its own and makes sense.

She's wrong: too many curves and not enough muscles, with hair too dark and too long. But she doesn't complain when he pushes her onto her stomach, when he pushes until his dick slides home in her ass, hot and perpetually virgin-tight.

He's wrong: too many memories and not enough to show for them, his composure too fragile and his heart too numb. But he breathes through it and takes what she offers, closing his eyes and pretending she's someone else.

Sometimes Sam wonders if she pretends, too—pretends that the body sliding against hers is cool and ageless instead of warm and pulsing with life, with blood. Does she bite back her dead lover's name, swallowing it with her moans? Is that why she's so quiet, why she responds to him only with a careful matching of his movements, the arch and roll of their fucking so smooth it's almost surreal?

He slides his arm along the pillow, bringing his wrist near her face. She turns her head away, but he knows what she wants, what she _needs_ , and she gives him so much. It's the only thing he really has to give back to her, the only comfort his stripped soul can offer.

"It's okay," he whispers into her neck, breathing in the lingering scent left by the battered leather jacket. He doesn't press the issue, just leaves his arm where it is. She'll take him up on it, eventually; she always does.

He conjures up the memories of wide green eyes and a brilliant white smile, of laughter and of harsh needy moans, and he thrusts into the body beneath him, Dean's name always on his lips but never spoken aloud.

Everything is wrong, but it's never going to be right again and it's all he's got, so he lets himself remember and forget.


End file.
